Code of Dishonor

by Don Pendleton

  "Why?" Bolan asked.

  "You have already saved my daughter's life tonight," he said, smiling.

  "Junko is quite capable of taking care of herself," Bolan replied.

  Junko bowed her head, flushing. "I... I am not worthy of such a compliment."

  "Do you know what Bushido means?" Hashi-san asked.

  The Executioner nodded. "The way of the warrior."

  "Loyalty to one's master," Dr. Mett said, his voice without inflection or accent. "Defense of one's status and honor, fulfillment of all obligations."

  "I will tell you the story of the forty-seven ronin, the masterless samurai," Hashi-san said. "And then you will understand all. In 1700 the original lord of the samurai, Asano, was taking a lesson in court etiquette in Tokugawa Castle, right here in Tokyo, when he was insulted by a government official. Asano, defending his honor, drew his sword and wounded the official, although this was contrary to strict laws controlling the use of weapons in the castle. As a result, he was obliged to commit suicide. His retainers dispersed, vowing revenge, which they accomplished two years later by killing the official. In turn, although their act of loyalty was approved, they were obliged to commit suicide, all forty-seven of them. These ronin are our national heroes, Mr. Bolan. Their code of honor, the Bushido, is my code. I am a direct descendant of Asano."

  Bolan stood, looked down at the faces of Junko and Dr. Mett and remembered the look on Junko's face just before she rode the Sonnojoi biker over the edge of the overpass. He also thought about a conversation he'd had with Lieutenant Ichiro about honor. He took out his Beretta and Big Thunder and laid them on the table. "You want to avenge the death of your son," he said.

  The old man picked up the guns and studied them, the gesture not lost on him. "I am sworn to uphold the honor of my family and my country," he said. "I will have my vengeance. This poison of cocaine is destroying the fabric of our youth. I will have an end to it, and perhaps my son will rest in peace. His dead face haunts me. Even in my sleep there is no escape." He looked up at Bolan, his eyes as old as eternity. "You understand me, don't you."

  It wasn't a question but a statement, and in it Bolan found the measure of his respect for this man. "We are of a kind, Hashi-san," he said. He clenched a fist and held it out in front of him. "You and I, just like this. I also have known pain and anger. I also seek to quiet the faces that haunt me. Tell me what you want from me."

  The old man stood also, bowing. "It is not what I want from you, but what I have to offer if you desire it, Striker." He gestured once again toward the window and the magnificent city that throbbed below. "I am Japan. I have unlimited resources at my disposal. I have a private force under the direction of Dr. Mett. We have isolated much of the operation that processes this powdered evil, and we will go in and kill... and destroy the evil once and for all. My resources are yours to command — if you want them. If not, we walk away from one another tonight, carrying with us mutual respect."

  "I put my weapons on the table for you," Bolan said, and in that gesture the Executioner said everything. Hashi-san nodded.

  Dr. Mett stood and moved around to Bolan, shaking his hand firmly. "I look forward to serving under you," the man said.

  "And you," Bolan said, then turned to Hashi-san. "A question. Have your ever heard of Operation Snowflake?"

  The old man looked puzzled and shook his head. "No," he said, then looked at Mett, who was also shaking his head. "Is this of importance?"

  "I'm honestly not sure," Bolan replied. "Are you aware of any large-quantity drug sales involving U.S. military personnel?"

  "The Air Force," Mett said and grunted. "Our contacts have led us to the Air Force many times."

  Bolan moved to the table, picking up his weapons and putting them back in their harness. "I want to move on this as soon as possible," he said. "Also, I'm answerable to no one or nothing save my own conscience."

  "I would expect no less," Hashi-san replied.

  "One final thing," Bolan said, habit making him unable to bring himself to reveal too much of his own limited knowledge. "Someone once told me to visit Fujikyu when I was in Japan, but I've been unable to find it on any of the maps."

  Junko was smiling widely. "That's because it's local slang," she said. "It is the term we apply to the trains that leave Shinjuku Station for Lake Yamanaka at Mount Fuji. There is the very popular Sengren Shrine there. It's quite beautiful."

  "Perhaps I'll go," Bolan said, and the first piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

  6

  Captain Hank Jamison sat on the flight line in the jeep watching the loading of the KC-135 supertransport fifty yards away. The KC was one of the largest airplanes in the world and was able to transport close to one hundred tons of cargo. It was being loaded with steel crates stamped Radar Bay and earmarked for every U.S. air base in America. What the crates actually contained was enough cocaine to burn the brains out of several million people, enough cocaine for Hank Jamison to pay back the government for all the pain they'd caused him in the past twenty years — and to make him a megamillionaire in the bargain. Not a bad night's work for a grounded sky jockey.

  They'd trained him to frag gooks in Nam, and that's just what he'd done. Then they'd told him he'd fragged the wrong ones. Hell, what difference did it make? One gook was the same as another. Well, Jamison wasn't a man to let grass grow under his feet. If he couldn't fly for the government, he'd make the government fly for him.

  His men worked quickly in the moist night air. It wasn't raining, but rain was never very far away. He watched them using the hoist to fill the cargo bay from the back of the truck. The operation was crisp and precise — military to the core. Jamison ran a tight ship and was proud of his boys.

  One of the men separated from the plane and drove a pickup truck across the wet pavement toward Jamison. He didn't recognize O'Brian until the man had pulled up next to him, facing the opposite way so that their driver's windows were nearly butted up against one another.

  "Another five minutes," O'Brian said, saluting. "The loading is going according to schedule."

  Jamison snapped off a salute in return. "What's left after this. Sergeant?"

  "Just the big packages for Travis and Andrews," O'Brian said. "And we should start movement on them tomorrow evening at 2000 hours."

  "Good. Has there been anything else on that big guy you tried to pick up last night?"

  "My man at Oneida tells me he somehow broke out of that Jap jail and is presently on the loose."

  Jamison spit out the window. He didn't like loose ends, and this one meant trouble. He wasn't about to let anything interfere with this last operation. "You keep your people working on it, Sergeant O'Brian," he said. "I want that man found, and I want him disposed of — whatever it takes. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "I'm holding you responsible. I want that man's balls on my desk the day after tomorrow at the latest, or I'll have yours instead. That's all."

  O'Brian saluted and put the Chevy truck in gear, gunning off in the direction of the transport. Jamison reached into his flight jacket and pulled out a pipe and leather pouch. He bowled the pipe, tapping the residue onto the wet ground. Refilling it from the pouch, he stuck the pipe's stem between his teeth and lit it. Reeves was the big man's name, but if he was an Internal man, he probably went by something else. Whatever it was, Hank Jamison wasn't going to let him screw this one up. Too much was riding on it. If he got in his way, Jamison knew he'd handle it just like he'd handled the gooks in Nam.

  He'd never come up against a problem that couldn't be handled by a bullet between the eyes.

  * * *

  Bolan and Junko sat in the back of Hashi-san's limo watching the all-night drugstore. It was midnight Tokyo time, which put it at 10:00 a.m. in Washington. Bolan had used Department of Defense authorization codes to try to reach Hal Brognola and was now waiting for his turn at the satellite.

  Junko sat close beside him, still dressed in t
he silk kimono, and the subtle odor of cherry blossoms drifted from her hair like a breath of spring. He liked this woman. She was strong and principled, yet it never seemed to get in the way of her femininity. Just like April Rose, just like his lost love.

  "The last time I rode in a limo in Japan," he said, turning to stare at the three-story nightclub across the slick street, "I ended up trapped in it at the bottom of Tokyo Bay."

  Junko's eyes twinkled in the dim lighting. "Well, at least you managed to escape," she said, and he smiled.

  "I was saved by a naked pearl diver."

  "A pearl diver," she repeated. "You travel with luck, just like the figure of the Daruma I gave you."

  Bolan nodded. "I thought she was a mermaid."

  "To save a sailor's life. Perhaps she was."

  A group of Amegurazoku, Japanese dressed like American greasers complete with leather jackets, sunglasses and slicked-back hair, walked into the drugstore. The radio one of them carried played an Elvis Presley song.

  Bolan looked at Junko, seeing no trace of the woman who had ended the life of the cheap punk on the highway earlier. She was sweet and innocent, even shy. "Does your father know what he's getting into?" he asked.

  She closed her eyes for just a second. "My father is a forthright and dedicated man. He always knows what he's doing and always gets what he wants. My brother's death nearly killed Hashi-san. His vengeance has been well thought out and well planned. All we lacked was... you, Mack Bolan."

  Bolan turned slightly in the seat to face her. "Is it difficult to be his daughter, to share his determination? Wouldn't you rather hold down a normal job, or be married with a family?"

  "To the Japanese, family is everything. I love and honor my father. What he wants is my want, as well. When he feels pain, it is my pain. I also loved my brother a great deal."

  "I didn't mean to imply that you didn't," Bolan said, embarrassed at how his question had come out. He felt awkward around Junko. "You just seem so... torn by what you are and what you must do."

  "Torn... yes." Her eyes misted, but she set her face with determination. "I am lonely sometimes. I have no one to confide in. I am my father's crutch, and he needs me for that. But who is to be my crutch?"

  "No boyfriend? No lover?"

  "There has been no time." She leaned back in the seat, her face sad. "Besides, I know no one except for the people who work for my father. He would never approve of such an arrangement."

  "I've got a good ear," Bolan said, reaching out to pat her knee. The familiarity startled both of them, and they pulled in a touch. "If you need someone to talk to, feel free."

  "There," Junko said, pointing past him. Bolan turned to see the owner of the drugstore waving frantically from his front door.

  "That's my call," Bolan said, opening the door and stepping into the drizzle. "If you want to go on, I can get a cab back to the house."

  "I'll wait," Junko said. "I think I'd like you to listen."

  Bolan smiled. Smiles came easily around her. "Give me ten minutes."

  The Executioner moved across the wide downtown Tokyo sidewalk and into the harsh glare of the store. The owner pointed him to the phone booth in the corner, and he walked past aisles filled with the latest in gadgets and medications. The teenage greasers were busy reading rack magazines while the women shopped for makeup.

  He moved into the old wooden booth and picked up the heavy red phone. "Moshi-moshi," he said into the receiver.

  "Is this Mr. Reeves?" came a distant Japanese voice, overlaid with static.

  "Yes, it is."

  "Go ahead, please."

  "Mack? Is that you?"

  "Hal! Good to hear your voice. Are you secured?"

  "As much as possible. You got something for me?"

  "Rumblings," Bolan replied, cupping his hands around the mouthpiece to get as much privacy as possible. "There are some crazy things going on here. I want you to run some names through the computer for me."

  "Shoot."

  "Master Sergeant Tom O'Brian. Tech Sergeants Jeffries and Prine."

  "Are they involved in the ring?"

  "They're involved in almost killing me," Bolan said. "Check 'em."

  "What else?"

  "A few shots in the dark. Try this name: Inazo Hashimoto. He's a Japanese industrialist. Just see what you've got on him. Also see if you have anything on an organization called Sonnojoi."

  "Anything else?"

  "See if you have anything on a man named Dr. Norwood. My contact at Yokota was killed after giving me the name."

  "You don't mean Lawrence Norwood, the Harvard researcher?"

  "I don't know who I mean. Tell me about this guy."

  "He's a nuclear scientist who did a great deal of work on the development of the neutron bomb, but then had a change of heart and turned pacifist. He went to Japan about a year ago to protest the presence of nuclear carriers off the Japanese coast and was never seen again."

  There was a commotion at the door. A group of drunk GIs had come in. They were harassing the greasers, calling them "fags" and pushing them around a little. One of them looked incredibly familiar.

  "Mack... did you hear what I said? Mack..."

  "Yeah," Bolan said, his eyes riveted to the back of the man he had singled out. "Find out the details for me, would you?"

  "This guy's a big security hole, Mack," Hal said, excitement in his voice. "If you've got something..."

  "I'm not sure," Bolan said and watched as the black man turned in his direction. It was Prine, one of the APs who had been at the pachinko parlor. They were paying for cigarettes and getting ready to leave. "Gotta go, Hal. I'll try to get back to you tomorrow at this time."

  "Do you know what you're doing, Striker?" Brognola asked.

  "Yeah," Bolan said. "Getting ready to pay a visit to an old friend." He hung up the phone and stepped from the booth as the five airmen left the drugstore.

  He followed them out. They all had the look of APs but weren't wearing identifying arm bands, which meant they were off duty. As they crossed the sidewalk, one of them spat on the trunk of the limo, then walked into the street and headed for the nightclub on the other side.

  Bolan gave them a head start, then walked quickly to the car, opening the back door. Junko smiled sweetly at him. "Got to see a man about a dog," he said. "You just go on home and get some rest."

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  He thought about making up a story but knew instinctively that she wouldn't buy it. "Those men..." he indicated the APs "...were involved with the pachinko bombing last night. I'm going to have a little chat with them."

  She started out of the car. "I'll help..."

  "No..." he put out a hand to hold her back "...this one's my fight. I'll take care of it my own way. I'll call you tomorrow."

  She lowered her head. "As you wish."

  "I'll be in touch," he said and walked quickly away from the car.

  "Be careful," she called after him, and he nodded.

  He started across the wide street just as the airmen disappeared into the club. The place was called La Bomba and seemed to be all glass. Three floors' worth of young Japanese with Western tendencies drank and danced. A spiral staircase wound up the center of the building to the fourth floor. Bolan could not see through the opaque glass of the top story.

  Bolan made the street, feeling strange, still wearing the robe, which was too short for him, that he had found at his "safe" house. He moved into the smoky bar where American jazz, heavy on the bass, throbbed through the semilit rooms. He was tensed for the kill. This was his first chance to meet his problems head-on, on his own terms, and he wasn't going to pass it up. Prine, the AP, was just as guilty as the punks who had lobbed the explosives into the gaming house, and the man was going to learn the meaning of instant karma.

  There was a smattering of GIs with Japanese women seated about the room. First of the month, payday. Bolan moved slowly around the place but didn't see Prine's group anywhere. He had just start
ed up the stairs to the second floor when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned, putting a casual smile on his face. A large bouncer with a crew cut began talking to him in Japanese. He knew the guy was trying to tell him there was a cover charge, but he just played dumb, saying he didn't understand Japanese, and continued up the stairs.

  The second floor was like the first. Women dressed in tuxlike outfits with fishnet hose moved around the tables, serving drinks in tall, frosted glasses. Still Bolan didn't see Prine. As he approached the stairs, the bouncer once again confronted him. This time a small man with a mustache stood beside the hulk.

  "Hello," Bolan said. "Nice place."

  "I'm sorry, sir," the man said, "but there is a cover charge to attend this club."

  Bolan nodded broadly. "Oh, I understand. I'm not going to attend your club. I just want to find a friend of mine, then I'll go."

  The bouncer and the little man talked for a moment, then the little man addressed Bolan. "We will find your friend for you," he said in halting English. "You wait downstairs by front door."

  "Thank you," Bolan said, "but that's not necessary. I'll just wander around... it will be quicker."

  Bolan made for the stairs, but the bouncer grabbed him. Bolan swung around and stepped hard on the man's foot, doubling him over. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "How clumsy. Here, let me help you."

  He moved up to the off-balance man and nudged him slightly. The man toppled heavily upon a nearby table that crashed loudly to the floor as drinks and patrons scattered.

  Bolan looked at the little man. "Sorry." He shrugged and hurried up to level three.

  He had to haul it at this point. There'd be others to take the place of the bouncer soon enough. Somehow he wasn't surprised when he didn't find Prine up there, either. A guy like him would have access to that closed-off wing above.

  The stairs ended at the third floor, and an elevator with an up arrow sat against the wall in its place. A man stood solemnly guarding the elevator. He was a lot bigger and a lot meaner-looking than the one Bolan had "helped" downstairs. It was getting thicker, and the Executioner liked that just fine.